The Twenty Sixth Eclipse
by Conigliomannaro
Summary: Sometimes love becomes an obsession, and obsessions never end well; especially if you fall in love with a demon, and all you will ever be allowed to share is one kiss and a waltz fading into the darkness.


Roxas has been walking on this earth for many, many years; not long enough to have become a legend, but three times what's granted to the most long-lived humans, that yes. Years have passed, decades and decades faded into centuries, but his face is eternally the fresh face of his eighteenth year. His hair still falls in the golden, unruly spikes of a perpetual post-adolescence, and the intense azure of his eyes is too young, and will be forever. He still retains a childlike, innocent manner to himself, a look that often clashes with his attitude. He's been through time and time, seen all the good and the bad the world could offer in nearly three centuries, yet barely looks as if he's gone through puberty. When he died to God and salvation he hadn't yet celebrated his nineteenth birthday, and he's never aged a day since.

The air is warm and moist that day in July, as one would expect from the deep core of summer in China. China is a big country, almost a continent, and Roxas isn't fond of the place. Too much smog, too many people, in a country with more than a language that's growing too fast, too carelessly towards a richness and a modernity that won't be destined to touch the whole society. But Roxas doesn't care. When life loses the limits of death and mortality, everything loses its perspective and becomes pointless and transient. Besides, he's waiting for someone, and the sociological aspect of his trip stands absolutely no chance against them.

Roxas sighs, crawling out of his bed. The small hotel he's found in Jiaxing is definitely nothing any Lonely Planet would advise, but he doesn't mind the furniture, nor the smell of cabbage and smog that enters through the window. He walks out on the terrace, leans his hands on the banister and looks up at the sky, frowning. He crosses his arms on his chest at the grey of the clouds hiding the sun, and there's something childish in his frown, something that makes it look like a pout, resembles the expression of a scorned child. What's the point of chasing an eclipse if a mass of clouds can rob him of the show?

Roxas looks at the clock and sighs. Still an hour of waiting remains, and he's growing impatient already.

He stretches lazily, drops onto the chair he's left on the terrace the previous night after his smoke; it's wet, but it's hot outside, a moist and sultry Chinese summer, so he doesn't care that the seat of his pants is soaked, now. Coming to terms with modern fashion has been tough on him, but denim is something he learned to accept pretty quickly. Though hoodies still horrify him deeply and tuxedos remain his most beloved outfits, he's learned to come to terms with many fads through the years, and actually had a grunge period back in the final decade of the twentieth century.

Through the centuries he's grown, has learned to adapt to the world as it changes, has seen some beautiful and some atrocious things. He's lived through the progress of technology and the regress of war, through myths about race and blood and the inspired speeches of black men fighting for freedom in two different continents. He's seen the shy dawning of democracy after barbarity gave place to a desolate, sad kind of peace, and has frowned and smiled as the world changed, humanity made mistakes, men loved, hated and killed. Even though he's been forced to live on a perpetual journey to hide his eternal youth, Roxas has always found jobs that allowed him to travel, see places, chase the sun.

Because what once was a chore, from a certain point became something he craved, something he _needed _to do. Random traveling gave place to a planned chase, a hunt, a never ending pilgrimage after a shadow with green eyes.

A pilgrimage to find _him_

Roxas sighs, pulls up a leg to his chest and leans his chin on his knee; his heart's beginning to pick up at the very thought of him, of what will happen when _the dragon will swallow the sun_. Decades of waiting finally coming to an end: centuries of desire, of unfulfilled want, finally being over. Because today, today; everything ends today.

He closes his eyes and behind his eyelids, like coming from an old and ruined film, play out flashes of red, of fire, and the malignant light of too-green eyes.  
>Too much beauty to be human.<p>

Roxas recalls the first time his very personal demon slipped through the folds of life and death to burn in the light of his candles, and his lips curl in a small, needy smile.  
>The first time he looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back.(1)<p>

xXxXxXx

When Roxas chose to summon him, he didn't really believe in what he was doing; he was only eighteen, the small, sickly, final offspring of one of the richest families of east Britain, sent to Paris to study and ending desperately ill in a tangle of sweaty sheets. The Bohéme way of life was blooming and spreading, and Roxas was just partially conscious of how terribly _bohemian _it was of him to quickly consume while coughing up blood so young; all the best doctors in France had been called, everything had been tried, done, no matter how disgusting or stupid it had been. He had actually seen a couple of magicians, but aside from his money, nothing else had gone away; the dark circles under his eyes just got darker, bigger; his lungs kept deteriorating, consuming, dying from the inside. Flowers of blood bloomed every night on his pillows, until Roxas had to accept the fact that he was going to die and tried to tie up the loose ends of his life.

Before he became too sick, Roxas had been regularly paying a gypsy witch to sleep with him, and he owed her the last month's money. Naminé was a small, pale thing, all eyes and shy manners, and when she was summoned to see her patron who was about to die, she hastened there as if it was a matter of hours. When she saw him she ran to his bed with wide, pained blue eyes and a soft whimper. She had been a good lover; Roxas still thinks of her with a distinct note of fondness even nowadays, and sometimes, in the years that followed their last meeting, he wondered what had become of her.  
>He never knew.<p>

There had been tears, that night. Naminé had climbed on his bed uncaring of his blood, uncaring of his cough, just nuzzling her nose against his chest, his neck, climbing on his lap and squeezing him like she was afraid he could vanish any minute. Roxas had stroked her back, spoken soothingly in her ear, smearing blood all over her hair with each caress, with every breath. "Shush, Naminé," he had whispered, "Don't cry, there is nothing we can do. It's all gonna be okay, little thing."

At that she had pulled away, eyes shining in a serious and confusedly determined way, and nodded taking a deep steadying breath; she stayed in silence for a long while, and then spoke tonelessly.

"Do you want to become immortal?" she asked, her small face strikingly still in the flickering light of the candles.

At that Roxas had frowned a bit, slightly confused by the question. "Sure," he answered, "Who wouldn't?"

Another long silence followed, -Naminé probably battling with herself to decide how she should answer- until a long sigh broke the quiet of Roxas' room. He swallowed when he realized she was actually serious, while Naminé, calmly, spoke about ancient secrets, magic symbols and rituals to be celebrated during moonless nights. Once she was done she gave another small sigh, kissed his cheek in a strangely definitive way, and stroked his hair away from his face.

"I really shouldn't have told you." she said quietly. Then, before Roxas could answer, she took the money and disappeared to never be found again, swallowed by the darkness of that cold Parisian night.

xXx

Roxas hadn't believed a word of what Naminé told him, at first. All that speaking of summoning demons, selling souls, paying tolls, sounded a lot like crazy talk. He barely believed in God, let alone in summoning demons and closing deals with them; and in case they existed, summoning one would have been a terrible, terrible idea. Death was probably preferable to eternal damnation anyway.

And yet, as death closed in, the idea became with each day more and more tempting; what did he have to lose? His soul, yeah, but he didn't really believe in such things; and if he was to live forever, why would he worry about what could happen after his death? Naminé had been clear, telling him that every kind of ritual had its own specific demon, and that each of them required a precise toll to be paid; she had made very clear that the Darkness never loses, and that the price to be paid would more than likely exceed dramatically the benefits of the deal, but Roxas didn't care. He was only eighteen and about to die, and he didn't have time to play this kind of chess game anymore. He searched for the drawing that Naminé had left him of the signs to do with chalk on the floor to summon the demon of the darkness, lord of darkness and deceit, and waited for the next new moon.

It would occur in two days. Maybe it would arrive in time to save his life.

xXx

When the night of the new moon came, Roxas still lived.

He drew on the floor of his living room with a chalk, copying carefully the schema Naminé left him, and surrounded it with two dozen burning candles. He felt a little ridiculous to even be trying, but at that point he would have tried anything. The doctors had said it was a matter of days, and as the hours passed, the terror made it harder to breathe, let alone speak or think. If there was a single chance only that the stupid idea would work, Roxas would take it.

He knelt in the center of the pentagram, spelled out the summoning formula trying not to laugh; then, he waited in silence for a few moments. Things had become strangely quiet, and for an instant he felt afraid; the doubt -or realization- of what he was doing made his eyes widen in shock and fear, fingers scrambling to erase the chalk sigils on the floor. When he swallowed clumsily, he choked on his spit. He coughed, each time harder, each cough rasping and scratching inside his chest, making him shake with pain, spit blood, blood, _blood _on the floor, like Naminé had said. The ritual was coming to its end, and the demon was taking his blood as a seal to close their deal. Roxas coughed until he doubled down on himself, shaking, face smeared in red: it was too late to back away. He just shut his eyes tight and whispered, head spinning: "J'offre mon sang en tant que sceau," _I offer my blood as a seal_.

Before Roxas' eyes lost their sight, the light of the candles flickered and soared, like someone -or something- had accepted his offer.

Then there was darkness.

xXx

The first thing Roxas had done the next morning when he woke up, sore and cold on his living room door, had been to run to his bedroom to look at himself in the mirror. He wasn't certain what had happened the night before, because the fever had been wiping out large chunks of his memory in the last weeks, but he confusedly remembered he had celebrated the ritual to summon the Lord of Darkness and Deceit. He had woken up in a puddle of cold and slimy blood, so he assumed the ritual completed, and as he ran to his room with his heart beating in his mouth, hopeful and excited, he smiled in spite of himself. Yes, yes, it had worked. It had to have worked.

It hadn't worked.

Roxas froze in front of the mirror, his wide smile fading into an open mouthed grimace of disappointment; he ran a finger along his sagging, skinny grey cheeks, stared with teary eyes at the dark circles under his eyes, at the blood smeared all around his face, his mouth; he sighed at the faded, spoiled opaque blond of his hair, ready to let himself go and wait for death to come and reap him.

But death didn't come.

In the next couple of weeks Roxas' cheeks filled out again; his eyes lost the dark circles and the blond of his hair returned to its old bright golden color. Breathing gradually stopped being painful, his lungs stopped bleeding. In only a month Roxas was healthy again, convinced he had merely survived the illness without the help of demons or supernatural entities. For a long time, Roxas lived happily -without concern or regrets- the life of a twenty year old man in Bohemian Paris; he still had the same baby face as when he was a teen, but even his twin Sora didn't look much older, so he never paid the fact any mind.

It took a knife in the gut during a bar fight to realize that, maybe, that flickering of candles as he passed out had not been a coincidence, back then. When he woke up in that dark alley, mouth tasting like copper and trash, he was laying in a puddle of his own blood; his shirt was pierced and cut, it hurt a bit to touch his own abdomen, but his belly was unharmed under the blood smears. There was no cut, no scar, nothing.

He was immortal.

In less than ten years Roxas had to leave Paris and his loved ones to hide his eternal youth. His face, his features, wouldn't follow the years as they passed, and his old life as he knew it had to be abandoned. He moved down south for a few years, finding some solace in the company of a young woman -heir of a rich merchant living in Marseille- named Xion. The girl was young, soft and nice, and for some reason, she reminded him of Naminé. He courted her for a while, knowing full well he would never marry her, and played the respectful suitor with all the quiet politeness his role required.

He had been seeing Xion for a couple of months when the little thing had jumped at his neck and asked him to wait with her for the eclipse to come. It was the evening of July 7th, 1842, and the eclipse was expected to begin around five forty in the morning. Roxas had to decline the offer -_Xion, my sweet; we cannot spend the night together. What would people think of you?_- but the idea of watching the eclipse wasn't bad. He headed back home, burned a piece of glass and went to bed; at five thirty he was awake again and in the garden in a matter of moments; with a couple croissants for breakfast, along with some coffee and milk, he sat at the table under the gazebo, waiting for the magic to begin.

At a certain point the air shifted and became first colder, then much hotter; Roxas checked his surroundings attentively, hand closing on the butter knife, but his garden was empty and bathing in the first light of dawn; he resumed his breakfast, brows drawing together quizzically when the sky, rather than growing lighter, slowly began turning back to darkness. He took the burned glass and brought it up, looked at the sun through its black surface. There it was, indeed; the small bite of the moon, right in the lower corner of the sun. Roxas smiled and leaned the glass down, attacking his croissant and his milk; he could imagine little Xion, squealing with her servant staring at the sky, the light of her fresh seventeen years making her face shine into the darkness. He had only brotherly feelings for the girl -so much younger than he was- but his looks didn't allow him to approach older girls, and as long as he kept their relationship platonic, he felt like he wasn't taking advantage of her good faith.

Slowly, as the moon moved to cover the sun, the light decreased, the day faded away into artificial night. Roxas watched through the glass again, saw the moon slowly hide the sun and felt strangely, irrationally nervous. When he leaned the glass down onto the table again, he wasn't alone anymore.

"You shouldn't look at the eclipse through a burned glass," said a cocky, amused voice from under the oak tree; "You could become blind."

xXxXxXx

Roxas smiles at the memory, sighs longingly; that voice, the memory of the first time he saw those eyes, that form. The obnoxious red of that hair, the deceiving, blinding beauty of those features. He pulls his legs to his chest and hides his face in his knees with a low exhale of desire, of want. Axel.

_Axel_.

xXxXxXx

Roxas didn't move, didn't answer. He didn't need to know who -or what- the creature in front of him was; he could smell fire, ashes and sulfur from where he sat; and his heart jumped in his throat and began pounding in his ears, behind his eyes. The Demon of Darkness and Deceit had come to collect its toll, and now there was only death and destruction, the eternal pain of hell, of everlasting damnation. The fear closed up his throat, broke his breath; it became hard to breathe, to think, to swallow. Roxas forced himself to take long, slow breaths, forced himself to release the butter knife -what would it do against a demon?- and slowly calmed down, regained a semblance of control. He tried to work his eyes through the rapidly spreading darkness, confusedly made out the elegant curves of skin on cheekbones, the gleam of green eyes, the blood tint of red hair spiking around from a low tied ponytail; he made out something that looked human, sounded human, but was way, way too beautiful to be so.

There was something enchanting in that creature. The way it was standing, leaning casually against the trunk of an oak tree; the way it was smirking, in a sly grin all thin lips and canines, and that long, almost lanky frame. Even though Roxas felt his heart hammer in his chest in terror, he couldn't stop staring at that display of perfection, at the beautiful creature sneering at him drowned into the cold and artificial darkness of that false night. Roxas put his croissant down on the plate, swallowed roughly and gave a strained smile.

"Have you come to take me away?" he asked tonelessly. The demon's eyes gleamed as his grin broadened, and Roxas cleared his throat to buy some time. "I haven't been enjoying this immortality for very long, after all."

"That's the point." the creature answered with a cruel chuckle, "If we played fair, I'd float around in a tunic and a pair of wings like those idiots from upstairs."

Roxas gave a slight nod, trying not to panic, "Right." he answered, "Can you let me finish breakfast, before we go?" his voice trembled slightly, but he had made a point not to stutter, cry or beg; it wouldn't have saved him anyway, and if he had to go, he wanted to do it in style.

The demon nodded back, just once. Then it tilted its head. "Aren't you gonna pray and cry?" it asked.

Roxas shook his head. "I don't see how it would help me with my predicament." he answered trying to control how shaky his voice was. "I sealed the deal with my own blood, all by myself, and for all I know demons have no pity or feelings, so I don't think it'd help me much to weep and cry. Croissant?" he offered, handing the creature the second untouched treat. He saw the demon frown thoughtfully, hum a bit and then smirk.

"If I touch you, you're dead," the creature warned, "So just put the food down and I'll take it myself." Roxas obeyed and the demon picked it up smiling appreciatively; "Nice," he commented, "But it's a French rich kid having breakfast in his rose garden. I guess I shouldn't have been expecting any less." the creature took a slow, lazy bite of the croissant and savored it carefully and critically; slowly, a wide smile spread on his face. "Humans do nice things, from time to time." he conceded; then he looked down at Roxas and tilted his head curiously. "But hey, kid. Are you really not going to beg and cry? Come on, that's the fun part of the job for us. Humor me."

"No," Roxas answered calmly, hiding a slightly catty smirk under the edge of his cup of coffee in spite of how terrified he was. "You can't rob the French of their dignity." he hoped he was right, but to be completely honest, he wasn't sure himself.

At that, the creature laughed. "Actually I can, but I'm not allowed to play with food," it snorted, more than visibly amused by Roxas' attitude. "You know, demons are whimsical creatures. If you beg prettily enough, I can even leave you alone and come to pick you up at the next eclipse. When you live forever, waiting one or a hundred human years is the same; it all more or less feels like a fifteen minutes' nap."

Roxas' ears perked up at that. "You mean you can come into this world only during eclipses?"

"No." the creature answered, "I came to this world when you summoned me, but I only become corporeal during eclipses. I'm a fire demon of the army of Darkness and Deceit. Our reigns are the faux nights of the eclipses, but we can become visible even in the fake sunlight of fire and candles."

Roxas smiled again, taking another sip of his wine. "So you're just an infantryman, huh?" he teased, heart hammering in his throat. There was something exciting and yet terrifying, playing with eternal damnation. Something intoxicating and inebriating, dizzying and breathtaking, in staring into those deep emerald eyes laughing at him. It was like playing Russian Roulette with five bullets in, like a kiss with death; it felt a thousand times more dangerously heady than smoking in an opium house, much better than having sex. He'd never felt more alive, never more fragile and yet strong, never better than now, staring into the beautiful face of his very own death. "Pity. I would have liked the big thing to come to pick me up."

The creature gave an evil smirk all teeth and dangerous green eyes, taking a step forward. "You do know you cannot escape, little thing, don't you?" it hissed out, the warm smell of ashes and burnt wood washing over Roxas' face, breaking his breath in both excitement and terror. "You do know that you can't hide, right? Even if I leave and let you live 'til the next eclipse, you do know that I'll come and reap you eventually, don't you? I'll hold you underwater next time you take a bath, or simply slide a hand into your chest and still your heart. You can't escape me. I am your future, little one. If you avoid eclipses, I'll come and get you when you least expect me. If I decide to let you live, you will never be free. I'll be over your shoulder, breathing against your neck, watching, waiting. Until you don't amuse me anymore, and then I'll reap you."

Roxas' heart jumped in his throat, beat desperately behind his eyelids and made his ears throb, but at the same time something churned in his stomach, made him narrow his eyes in challenge. "I'm not scared, mister big Demon;" he spelled out slowly, voice choked in both excitement and terror. "Reap me. Make it quick or make it slow and painful, it doesn't matter. I'm not gonna beg like a bitch."

For a second, the fury Roxas saw in the demon's eyes closed his throat, almost made him change his mind and beg; the creature looked outraged, like it couldn't believe the little human's nerve. It reached out pale hands, fingers morphed into claws, while his red hair caught fire and illuminated the darkness around them. Roxas flinched in reflex, shrank against the bench, shut his eyes. He dumbly believed he was dead when the unbearable warmth of the demon's flames faded and he felt a cold breeze against his cheeks; but when he opened his eyes and the demon was laughing loud, hair singed at the edges and mouth smoking slightly, he realized he was still alive. The eclipse was at its peak, the world silent and drowned into the false darkness of the moon shadowing the sun, and his very personal demon was _laughing_.

"I like you," the creature cheered, taking a new bite of his brioche. "Let's toast your last hour on this earth, kid."

"Roxas." Roxas corrected, "And you can't toast with coffee."

The creature rolled its eyes, snorted. "_Enchanté_, Roxas." he answered. "I haven't had a name in millenniums, but you can call me Axel. I like the sound of it. And I toast with whatever I want, mortal. It's five am, and not even demons drink champagne at dawn."

The conversation went on like that for quite some time; Axel ate very slowly, and when Roxas' plate and cup were empty, he still had half of his croissant. When the darkness began to subside, giving place to the morning sun, Axel gave a small smirk, winked at him and gave a green, knowing glance. "Looks like it's your lucky day, kid." he commented. "I like you. I think I won't reap you 'til you ask me to."

Roxas raised a brow, relief breaking his perplexed expression with a wide smile. "Why would I ever ask to?"

The creature laughed a cocky, cruel laughter and shrugged. "Believe me, kid. You will end straining to touch me, one day," he purred, "And, when you give in, you'll be glad of it. Because believe me, _eternal damnation is well worth it_."

A moment later, when the sun shone fully again, free from the constraint of the moon's shadow, Axel had disappeared.

Roxas ran in and worked on his luggage, impatiently tossing his belongings into a chest while he yelled at a servant to buy him a ticket to Paris. He needed to talk to some astronomer, to find out where the next observable eclipse would take place. It didn't even occur him to warn anyone, or to write a few lines about why he was leaving in such a hurry.

Xion, quite simply, never saw him again.

xXxXxXx

"Sir, do need anything?"

The voice that shakes Roxas out of his daze is small, shy, speaks English with a terrible mandarin accent, and Roxas looks up at the small Chinese chambermaid at the door. They're not used to hosting many tourists, it's obvious, because with that English Roxas is never even sure what he's getting for dinner; he has even tried to speak to her in French, Dutch, German and Spanish, but to no avail; the tiny Chinese girl speaks only mandarin, with a few English words schooled here and there. Roxas has been wandering the earth for a long time, but he's never found the courage to try to crack the mystery of oriental languages. So, all they can ever share is that clumsy parody of communication.

He nods with a smile and spells out: "I would like a bottle of champagne and two glasses, miss. I'm waiting for someone."

The small girl nods, bows and leaves; Roxas leans back against the banister of the terrace and smiles, staring at the grey sky.

xXxXxXx

Chasing Axel through the years hadn't been easy. The nineteenth century wasn't all that equipped for long distance traveling, and Roxas found himself needing to plan ahead of time his trips to chase the artificial nights; he followed the hidden sun to Sweden in 1851, then Spain in 1860; the next total eclipse in Europe had been in Spain again, in 1870, but even though time for an immortal flows differently, Roxas began to grow restless. Seeing Axel for about two hours every ten years was both frustrating and exciting, both worth the wait and not; to be able to see another observable eclipse, Roxas had to wait 'til his trip to Cuba in 1878, and then run to Egypt, where he met Axel again in 1882. But waiting became harder every time.

However, the feeling of challenging death and speaking to his emerald-eyed eternal damnation made every second worth waiting for. All the money Roxas had to spend, to earn, to waste; every uncomfortable trip on a rusty coach, every sleepless night spent vomiting out of a rolling ship, every annoying trip by train; everything acquired a meaning when the light of the sun began to die and a well known, low voice greeted him, each time in a different language. Every meeting made Roxas' chest soar, every time Axel's beauty digging just a notch deeper in his chest; until it wasn't the thrill of danger drawing him in, but a new, crazy, reckless kind of need. And following eclipses began to not seem enough anymore.

Axel began haunting Roxas' dreams with glimpses of green eyes, promises of naked perfection, of smooth and pale skin. Axel's teeth flashed in the darkness of his sleep, the shine of his eyes tearing the fabric of his dreams apart, making him jump awake in his bed, hands clutching the sheets in frustration. Because Axel was always there, yet he was never around. He both owned him and belonged to him, and Roxas both wanted him and feared him. At every meeting, his heart beat frenetically until Axel smirked, shook his head, murmured '_Not this time_'. Every moment following those words was a gift, made Roxas' chest soar and ache; because it meant he'd keep living, yeah, he'd be spared and keep seeing Axel; but it also meant he wouldn't touch him that time around, either. Germany, Russia, China, Spain and Spain again at the beginning of the twentieth century; then Sweden, in 1914.

Then, two wars. More than thirty years apart, unable to follow Axel, to meet him, and Roxas feared he wouldn't make it to the next time, wouldn't be able to face another day -another year- without seeing him.  
>His only reason in life, his <em>drug<em>, was out of his reach, and he felt like he was going insane.

His tastes in prostitutes changed; he began chasing tall redheads with green eyes -be it male or female- to surrogate what he ached, needed, craved for. He practiced meditation until he was able to focus enough to recognize Axel's face in the pattern of the flames in his chimney or of his candles, spoke to his demon through the fire. All the while he followed the path of the eclipses around the globe, chasing Axel's cheesy smirk and feeling like a desperate, lovesick puppy. A side of him hated to be the only needy one. Until a night of January in London.

Roxas was doing a pretty red headed little whore he had picked up in Soho that night. He was panting against her neck a confused jumble of praise, in which a name, every now and then, stood out, and it wasn't hers. At a certain point, the warmth from the chimney soared and grew in an unnatural way; it washed over him in an almost delicate, shaky caress, ran up and down his back as he moved inside the young whore underneath him. It felt like something was running invisible, incorporeal hands over his back as he pushed, pushed, _pushed _into that little thing that cried out desperately, voice just _too high pitched, too feminine _to be believable; to not ruin the fantasy. He closed his eyes, tightened his hold on her hips, groaned. "Axel..." he sighed out louder, and the warmth grew, grew until it was almost unbearable; Roxas came shaking, hilting inside the girl as she moaned and faked a noisy orgasm.

After the Second World War, chasing Axel had become easier. They met in Boston in the October of 1959, ate together in Florence in 1961; then came Canada in 1963, Argentina in 1966, Mexico in 1970. From '73 on, they met in African land, drank tea in the desert, sat under the weary shadow of tents. As technology progressed and progressed, Roxas' obsession became easier and easier to feed; there were planes to catch, long distances to be covered in matters of days at most, even jobs he could have without needing to show his face in a real office.

And then there was Axel.

Eventually, came Tepic, Mexico; 1991. A total eclipse with more than 6 minutes of complete darkness, and Roxas was waiting impatiently for it. Axel seemed to soar and shine the most when the totality lasted longer, and they had met just nine years before, the last time. Roxas had been waiting for the eclipse in his room, on the second floor of an ancient hacienda, pacing back and forth impatiently. The light of the late morning seemed to not want to fade, and he lighted one cigarette after the other irritably, glaring at the shining sun. _Get the hell out of here, you fucker. I'm going to get reaped, today_.

Axel had appeared sitting on his windowsill, as soon as the darkness was enough for him. His eyes were shiny and green as usual, but he looked serious, almost disappointed. "Hola." he had said low in his throat, "Why so nervous?"

Roxas cleared his throat. "How... how will it be, after I touch you?" he asked, "How bad will it be, my damnation?"

"What do you think?" Axel answered sliding off the windowsill, heading straight for the half finished bottle of tequila on Roxas' desk; "Humans call it 'hell' for a reason, even if the whole story of the devil with horns and goat legs is frankly ridiculous. My boss doesn't even wear red at all. Looks more like an old man that fell asleep on the beach and got sunburned."

Roxas took a deep breath, reached out a hand. "I'm ready."

"You're not, until I say so." Axel answered, his voice tense like his lips, eyes narrowing in a firm, angry grimace.

"You said you'd wait for me to ask to be reaped. I am. Touch me." Roxas repeated, heart beating in his mouth and a part of him yelling '_No no no no no no, please, what the hell do you think you're doing? _Axel pursued his lips at that, hissed and swallowed another sip of tequila. Roxas frowned a bit, grimaced. "It's not even noon yet." he pointed out, "Put down that bottle."

Axel didn't answer, didn't even look at him, and after a couple of sips he sent the empty bottle crashing to the wall. He paced towards Roxas, threatening, angry, vicious green eyes narrowed to slits; canines poked from his lips while his hair caught on fire again and sharp claws slid out of his fingers. "You think you're ready, little useless mortal?" he roared, the fire of his hair singing the edges of the straw swinging lamp hanging from the ceiling. "Do you think you can handle an eternity of damnation, you pile of worthless trash? Are you arrogant enough to challenge the Darkness and its soldiers?"

Roxas' first impulse was to jump back, to back away from that angry demon cowering and shaking in fright. He stumbled against the bed, crawled away on messy cotton, screams dying in his throat when Axel crawled after him; demonic hands singed the sheets in perfect hand prints, and he felt Axel's breath close; so close, washing over his face, his skin heating up and dusting with ashes. In his mind, a preview of what was to come was running, undoubtedly for Axel's doing, and Roxas could feel his hair stand on end, his mouth open in a silent scream as horror washed through him and a confused scream of regret resonated inside him.

He saw an eternity of pain, of horror and desperation, fueling a never ending agony; he saw the worst suffering, saw himself regretting his own birth, curse the day he summoned Axel. He saw his loved ones, saw himself forced to kill all of them over and over and then saw an abyss of fire and embers swallowing children, swallowing innocents; lava and flames licking up his skin, tearing at his limbs, without a moment of peace, a moment of rest. He saw a small demon, a woman, saw her blades searching inside his flesh, saw her lightnings run through him over and over; saw Axel as well, saw him far away, unreadable eyes looking away while his fire devoured Roxas and a thousand other people. Then he saw darkness, a darkness and a solitude so complete that they made him regret the torture, the pain. Then screams, so many screams in his mind, and finally Roxas crawled away far enough to fall off the bed, on the cold stone floor away from Axel's breath and his magic, cruel eyes.

He stared up at where his own legs disappeared over the edge of the bed, panting in terror trying to catch his breath, whole body covered in cold sweat. Axel's face -his human face- appeared over the edge of the bed slowly, ash falling off badly burned red hair, smoke still steaming out of his mouth.

"Are you really ready to be reaped, Roxas?" Axel asked slowly, spelling out the words like they were something obscene, a thing of sin.

Roxas shook his head, swallowed. "No. N-no, I'm not." he answered.

Axel nodded once. "I'll see you at the next eclipse, then." he said, and disappeared behind the edge of the bed again.

When Roxas found the strength to crawl back up on his feet the sun was out and shining, Axel was gone, and the glasses on the floor and the five hand prints he had burned on the sheets were the only evidence that it hadn't all been just a bad dream.

Roxas missed the next eclipses on purpose, and found the courage to face his demon only eight years later in Monteria, Colombia.

When he appeared, Axel looked slightly sad. "You've been avoiding me." he accused as a greeting.

Roxas nodded. "That's right," he answered. "I have been. But you haven't come to reap me."

Axel gave a small smile. "I knew I wouldn't need to."

Roxas smiled back, a defiant look in his eyes. "Am I a pretty moth, at least?" he asked a bit bitterly.

"The prettiest." Axel answered, "I'll be sorry when I'll have to reap you."

"Yeah," Roxas answered, "You will be."

xXxXxXx

It's just beginning to get dark when the small girl is back with a bottle of pricey champagne and two glasses on a silver tray; her cheeks are just a tad flushed when she speaks.

"I go buy the good wine at the shop because I thinked your guest is important, yes?" she explains when she sees Roxas take the bottle up and quizzically analyze its label; he looks at her, feeling oddly grateful for the thought and nods, handing her a roll of bills as a tip.

"Thank you, milady." he answers, smiling a bit when her tiny eyes widen at the sight of all that money. "I shall probably be leaving today. If I'm not back tomorrow, you're allowed to throw my things away," he says. He doesn't have much left, just some luggage and a computer, but the girl looks surprised, confused. She hasn't understood, probably, but it's not important. They'll know what to do with his things, when he won't be back to claim them. At that point, it won't matter anymore.

Dismissed the little chambermaid, Roxas brings the tray on the terrace, fills the two glasses and sits, waiting for the moon to do her magic and allow Axel to his corporeality. The light decreases slowly, and Roxas' heart picks up its pace just as slowly; he tries to relax, but anticipation, nervousness and a tiny sliver of fear are making it just that much harder to breathe steadily. He closes his eyes, takes long, steadying breaths; tries to calm down, to not tremble too much. The totality of the eclipse is scheduled to be the longest of the whole twenty first century, with its nearly six minutes of complete darkness, and Roxas has decided that all the waiting, all the wild, desperate desire of nearly three centuries of living will end today. He smiles faintly when he hears something click on the silver tray on his left, and sighs out low and long.

"You're here." he comments quietly. "You're late."

"I'm never late." Axel answers; hhe must be close, because his warmth is washing all across Roxas' front, the smell of embers and ashes itching his nose to the point of stinging. There's a small pause, in which Roxas can clearly imagine Axel taking a sip of the pricey wine in his glass; then the demon resumes his speech. "_I _pick the time."

Roxas snickers slightly at the cocky tone, but doesn't open his eyes. Dying is harder than he anticipated, and he's still gathering his strength. Even if he's ready, even if his only tie to this world is a twisted and cruel kind of romance with a demon he cannot touch, a long series of things he's loved and lost run through his head. Naminé's soft, immature body; Xion's blind worship, the feeling of wind against his skin. The sight of the sea, the calm deadliness of the depths of ocean; the taste of a good cigarette after an espresso on a terrace in Florence. The sad, elegant profile of New York's sky, the calm graveness of the Tower of London and the cats of the ruins of Rome. The dog he had when he lived in South America, the smell of the restaurants in Barcelona and the taste of Swiss chocolate. The green of wild woods, the relief of a gush of cold water after a hike in the searing heat of Cairo, and the feeling of sliding between clean, crisp sheets after a shower; the warmth of the fireplace, staring at a face that shouldn't have been there to begin with.

He will miss all of that.

When Roxas finally opens his eyes, Axel is sitting on the banister of the terrace. He's holding a half finished glass of wine, stares intensely at him, and Roxas has the distinct feeling Axel _knows_. He gets to his feet, walks closer, fills Axel's glass again.

"You don't toast on your own," he scolds; "Here. Let me show you, you barbarian." the glasses touch briefly, and Roxas' smile comes naturally at the sound. Axel's staring at him like a caged tiger, but surprisingly now it feels like a weight has been lifted off of Roxas' shoulders. "To my last hour of life." he toasts. He brings the glass to his mouth and sips the wine slowly, like a real connoisseur would; Axel does the same, just as slowly, eyes trailing over Roxas' face with an intensity that would probably scare him, if he didn't know already what's going to happen. Axel has drunk, he has toasted with him; Axel has accepted. _Axel will reap him, today_.

"You think you're ready now, little human?" he asks leaning the glass on the banister again. It's almost completely dark now, and Roxas' eyes strain a bit to make out Axel's silhouette in the darkness. "Do you think you can face your own death and damnation? You've been alive only two hundred and ninety five years, you know. I could let you roam around much longer. You could see the future, the fall of humanity, the beginning of new eras. You would be untouched. You would be eternal."

"My waiting ends today." Roxas answers, "_Our _waiting ends today."

Axel gives a cruel smirk before answering; "Don't flatter yourself, little thing. I'll have forgotten you the moment after I reap your soul."

Roxas knows it's probably true, and he's surprised when it doesn't hurt. As long as he can touch those cheeks, feel the texture of demon skin under his fingers, the warmth of fire under his palms, he can go with most everything.

"Plymouth 1999, Turkey, 2006; Russia, 2008. And today; China, 2009, the longest eclipse of the century." Roxas lists softly with a half smile. He walks back into his room, turns the small portable hi-fi on and picks the right song, setting it on repeat. When he returns, the first notes of The Blue Danube follow him, lost into the darkness. "I'm ready." he says calmly.

Axel raises a brow, an amused chuckle following shortly. "Do you wanna go with a dance?" he asks, "Are you _such a sap_?"

"I want my very own dance macabre, Axel." Roxas answers with a matching smirk. "What's the point of having a domestic demon if I don't exploit the situation to play out all my foolish mortal fantasies?" Axel nods, reaches out a hand. Roxas reaches out as well, but freezes midway; Axel doesn't comment and Roxas takes a couple steadying breaths, bites his lower lip. "Is... is it always this scary?" he asks, swallowing with some difficulty. When he raises his gaze, Axel's eyes are strangely soft; almost _human_.

"I cried and begged for mercy like a two cents' whore." he answers, shrugging. "So I guess your answer is 'yes'."

Roxas isn't surprised to find out that Axel was human once. Too often he's seen small quirks of affection, moments of pity and feelings that shouldn't have belonged in a pure blooded demon, and he wouldn't be surprised if he found out Axel's a newborn of some kind. His humanity hasn't washed away completely yet, and he answered with a strained smile. "What did you ask for?" Roxas asks.

Axel tilts his head. "I don't remember, but I think it was something like 'eternal beauty and power' or something of the sort. They let me wander around like a badass for half a millennium and sent a thousand little demons to reap me. I was eaten alive. Not a dignified way to go."

"You got a lot to learn about dignity, it seems." Roxas answers, heart hammering in his chest as he finally takes the hand that's reached out for him. He would like to finish the joke, but as his fingertips touch Axel's skin, _everything is lost_.

The notes of the Waltz sound deafening in his ears as he feels something inside of him physically _burn_; it's an ache he would have never believed possible, and Axel's laughter is cruel in his ears, cruel even as the demon pulls him in and circles his waist with his arms, bringing him to lean against the scorching heat of his own chest in what could pass as a gesture of kindness. In what can't possibly be more than half a second, Roxas dies a million deaths; he feels the pain of humankind -from the beginning of days til the end that's still to come- tug and tear inside of him, feels it burn, feels it shake. He feels his mortality, his soul, consume and strain as if against acid, against fire. Feels his body die, the stench and taste of burned blood choking his throat, searing inside his body. There's an eternity of agony in the lapse of time between the heartbeat that came before he touched Axel's hand and the one that comes after, and after the pain shakes and explodes, Roxas collapses against Axel's chest, eyes wide and breath frantic, wheezing. There's a hand in his hair, stroking it slowly and softly while Axel's whispering something in an old, forgotten language against Roxas' ear. There's a brief and confused moment in which Roxas recognizes the language as old Sumerian and asks himself how he knows it; then he realizes they're moving, Axel slowly dancing to the soft notes of the waltz and holding him to himself like a limp rag doll.

"There, there, little kid." Axel's whispering soothingly, "It wasn't so bad, now, was it? I went easy on it." Roxas doesn't answer and only spits more blood across Axel's perfectly styled suit. It smells of high fashion from a mile away; probably Italian, or French. Showoff.

He raises his face, looks up into those green eyes that became such a deadly obsession to him, that cost him his life and his soul, and can't muster up the hatred or the anger to regret his choice. He would take that outstretched hand again, again and again and again, at least another million times.

"Kiss me, Axel." he quietly commands.

His domestic demon does just that. And it's not surprising when it hurts and tastes like burnt embers.

xXx

It's the intense light coming from the window of the French tourist that draws her attention. Mi puts down the protective glasses – who cares about the eclipse – and heads to room number 116, running in a frantic, concerned way. The boy has been nice to her, and he did sound strange, when he had dismissed her before the eclipse started. She slams his door open, stumbles about in the darkness, heading for the window where something is clearly on fire. There's the music of a waltz in the air, and when Mi finally reaches the terrace, a scream dies in her throat. There are two creatures – _men _isn't the right word anymore, she feels it clearly – dancing in the darkness. They're floating in the air, way too light and delicate to be real; and they are _ on fire_.

It's a tall redhead, a beautiful creature whose hair is on fire, that's leading the dance; the French tourist – mister Roxas – is instead abandoned against the creature's frame as if dead. Mi can smell death, can smell blood and terror; she tries to cower, frightened, but even when the demon's eyes meet hers, the creature doesn't seem interested in harming her. He just squeezes his prey harder, possessively, whispers something in blond hair, twirls elegantly to the notes of the waltz. The music is loud -too loud- and Mi is surprised she's the only one that's noticed the noise and the light. The eclipse is at its peak when finally the smaller creature jolts awake again, vomits more blood across the demon's chest and finally moves, dancing along to the music with his partner.

Mi's terrified, staring wide eyed at that macabre dance in the cold and dark eclipsed sky; she's frightened, heart hammering in her mouth hard enough to taste faintly of blood and pure, unadulterated horror, and yet she can't look away: there's something morbidly enchanting in the couple. The flames the couple were drowned into slowly die out, until the duo is lost in the darkness again, dancing precise and elegant to the perfect beat of the music and surrounded by a thin cloud of smoke. Mi crawls back into the room as if to escape, but she's not very far away when she stops, looks back; there's something fascinating and sad in the way the couple moves. There's a confused tinge of longing in the way long, clawed fingers hold the small of the smaller creature's back, and there's something sad and needy in the way hands touch, squeeze and fist in hair and different kinds of cotton.

The smaller creature raises his face, moves bloody lips close -_too close_- to the bigger one's chin, whispers something Mi cannot discern. On the demon's face spreads a slow, sad smile, and a clawed hand reaches up to cup the bloody chin of what once was a nice French tourist that gave big tips and asked for Champagne at seven thirty am. Mi's heart constricts in her chest when two pairs of lips meet, and the energy in the air sizzles; it takes on a distinct note of pain, and the music from the stereo stutters and stills like that of a scratched vinyl. That, that is the key of everything; that sense of pain and need, of love and desperation, for the late blooming of something that will live for less than six minutes before it will die. The kiss seems to never end, seems to last forever. It aches to watch, aches in a beautiful, terrible way; Mi feels confusedly, on some level, that no mortal will ever live a love like that; no mortal will ever feel such desire and need. And for a moment, Mi envies them.

Slowly something shifts, and light begins to filter again from behind the moon. There's a tightening of hands on clothes, on hair, on skin; there's a deepening of that one and only desperate last kiss, but the sun is free from his cage, and their false night is swept away slowly and inexorably. She doesn't know why, but Mi knows it means the end for the two lovers kissing in the sky. A sad smell of cooling embers and wet ashes spreads in the air, smell of old carbon and cold fireplaces; the kissing couple slowly stirs, bathing in sunlight. Hair and clothes become wrinkled and messy, the embrace tightens; there are no words spoken. When the wind comes, they're still kissing.

A soft rain of dust and sand, then silence.  
>Two half glasses of champagne on the banister, the smell of a dead fire.<p>

And that is all that's left of them.

* * *

><p>(1) Nitetzche, 18441900


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